


can you hear them too (crying out in the dark)?

by Deviation



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 20:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2441339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deviation/pseuds/Deviation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the last Leviathan is gone, darkness will fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can you hear them too (crying out in the dark)?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the heart because who didn't use it everywhere all the time always?

He dreams of Void. 

In Void he floats or he swims or he simply is. It is a blanket of cool energy and it flows around him. He opens his eyes and sees things, fantastic things, things that have no name or have names that cannot be spoken by human tongues. The kinds of things that seers see when they gaze too long into the abyss; he keeps his eyes closed. He has never been one to turn away from truth but he is also not a foolish man; there are some things witch man cannot bare to see- perhaps what man does not deserve to see. 

He moves within this void, floating, drifting, adrift; there is no purpose here, or at least not one that he has been able to discern in the light of day. Surely the Outsider is bringing him here, but he never hears their voice or senses their presence. Here, wherever here is, there is only the drift and the void and the song. The sad, sad song with no words or tune but so much ancient sorrow. He is drifting in sorrow, eyes closed, vague pressure all around him noticed only when the current of it changes for there is no hot or cold, only the pressure, the liquid, the void. And the song. In their song, when he strains his bodynotbody he can almost make out some foreign language, some sad words, something so ancient and lonely and larger then anything he could ever possibly hope to understand that he does his best not to listen. 

He dreams of the Void but of not the Void. A place so foreign and unimaginable that surely no place in all the Isles could possible come close to matching it. When he wakes, cold sweat, breath stuttered, the smell of the salt from his tears, and ancient sorrowful songnotsong in his ears, he looks out his window. High in the castle and close to Emily, (always always always close to Emily), and he sees the ocean in all its vastness and thinks, perhaps, somewhere deep within its depths is this placenotplace. When he wakes and looks out his windows sometimes he can see ships on the water, distant tiny things with whales hanging from the sterns like trophies or sails, and imagines that with a wave of his hand he could summon rats upon those distant tiny insignificant things. He raises his hand, his marked hand, and places the tiny bugs between his fingers and squeezes, slowly so slowly, as tho he could crush or curse the distant things. He doesn’t look at boats anymore, tries not to look towards the sea at all. Turns to stone when the ships' captains come to Emily, begging for funds, begging for ships, begging for canisters and drills and harpoons and men. His marked hand twitching by his side, phantom throats warming his palm, sweat dripping like someone else’s blood carving a path over and around his mark like a lover. 

And still he dreams; for all men and crows must sleep. Still he sees or not sees and hears or not hears- floating, drifting, adrift the Void. Sometimes he can almost feel the Outsider there, in his dreams. Observing as they always do, calculating as they always do. Sometime it almost feels as tho the sad songnotsong is less sad when they are there. As tho the beings can sense one of their own amongst their midst. And when the Outsider leaves, oh when they leave, it’s as if the world ends and begins with the comings and goings of the Outsider. But sometime, oh sometimes their mourning cannot be contained. Sometimes the songs turn to anger and rage and defeat and the entire Void echoes with their calls. And always, always, the outsider is there screaming their rage with the singers and all the Void trembles and always he wakes from these dreams gasping and panting, covered in sweat and salt and tears; his sheets soaked in piss and tangled around his body like anchors around traitors at sea. Shaking, shaking, shaking, and the calls of the damned echoing in his head, drowning out all else.

On those days it is always storming, the ocean reaching toward Dunwall as tho it were trying to pull the entire isle into its depths. Sometimes he even wishes that it would. On those days, news of capsized whaler boats always reaches the castle. On those days, should he look toward the ocean, he can almost hear the triumphant anciently lonely songnotsong, echoing from deep within its depths. He keeps his eyes closed. 

(they are burning whales)


End file.
